The Virtues of a Padded Cell
by Smidy
Summary: Post WOCD - AU-ish. Just because Lynn's still alive - Logan wondered which he’d prefer: padded cell or straightjacket?


Logan wondered which he'd prefer: padded cell or straightjacket?

On one hand, the straightjacket would be beneficial to both himself and those around them, guaranteeing their safety when the consequences of his decidedly idiotic actions processed through his decidedly thick brain and forced him to face his decidedly unpleasant reality. Equally, his steadfast position could provide the excellent, calm base upon which he could arrive at a resolution for the aforementioned consequences. Or plan his suicide. Either one.

However, Logan mused, straightjackets were awfully restricting, whereas a padded cell was relatively spacious, at _least_ 2x2, graciously allowing him the option of pacing or, alternatively, slamming his head against his soft, cushiony confines while mulling over his _monumental stupidity_, whiling away the time between his daily psych consults.

_Plus_, straightjackets were inexplicably coloured white, (a shade he'd hated ever since Shelley Pomroy's party), and he was much more confident in his ability to achieve a darker palate for his cell than he was of single-handedly disrupting the pure uniformity that, knowing his luck, every single straightjacket in the whole, entire world paid strict heed to.

Padded cell it was.

He was unsure as of yet as to which mental institution he was going to insist on being admitted to, but he _was_ 100% certain he'd have to consolidate the decision soon, as, he reasoned, any guy who kisses his murdered-ex-girlfriend's-best-friend-who-just-so-happens-to-be-his-best-friend's-ex-girlfriend, was surely teetering on the edge of insanity.

"And", he grandly states, "in addition to that, my dear Logan, you hate her. And she's not too overly fond of you either."

He begins to formulate a quick and cutting retort but then falters, resignedly acknowledging that yes, he _is_ talking to himself and yes, he _is_ aware that it is one of the preliminary signs of mental instability.

He deliberates excruciatingly between typing 'mental institution' or 'mental asylum' into the search engine on his computer, convinced that the difference in results will be astronomical. He doesn't know why.

And it's not _just_ that, he relents, it's not _just_ their mutual hatred. She had made him feel useful and protective. It was only _her_ voice that had stopped him from pummelling the absolute _shit_ out of Jump Street when he saw that the stupid little punk had frightened her.

And what was infinitely worse? He, Logan Echolls, self-proclaimed Veronica hater and chief torturer of her white trash mental state and social reputation, pulled her back. She'd given him a chaste little peck, no doubt a rush of adrenaline, and after a quick, yet thorough searching of his eyes, she was ready to get the _hell_ out of there. But he_ pulled her back_ and enveloped her in a quite positively un-chaste make out session, in which he noted (happily?) she was more than willing to participate in.

And now it was dark. Shadows flitted around his room, constructing evil, tricksy shapes, rendering him absolutely out of support for shadow puppets and one ominous dark corner away from dredging up his transformers night light. Optimus Prime would save him.

That night he drifted into fitful dreams about ambulances, barbed wire fences, psychiatrists' broad, patronizing grins, janitors called Mr. Andy Handy Dandy, cellmates named Larry who ate cheese and conversed with Barney the purple dinosaur on regular occasions and hot blonde nurses with strategically placed nametags that read "Veronica".

The alarm clock blared at 7:17am and he determined that today was the day. He wandered into the kitchen and pondered the make, colour and texture of his prospective psych analysis shrink's couch and waged an internal war about whether the presence of a crotched rug had any credence whatsoever.

He noticed his mother had fallen asleep at the dining table, head lolled to one side, an empty champagne bottle watching her from its position on the floor, and he thought strenuously about the extra-curricular activities available at his chosen madhouse. Was basketball too cliché? Calligraphy too unobtrusive? Bible classes too 7th Heaven?

Aaron emerged, sporting a smug grin and running his hands over the shiny expanse of his belt, nails scratching at the buckle and tugging at the hoops. He began blathering on about strong, yet supple Italian leather and Logan realised, once admitted, he'd have to forfeit his shoe laces and, whilst eating breakfast, devised an ingenious plan to maintain ridiculously sneaky and amazingly hazardous possession of the drawstring of his pants.

He dove slowly and dejectedly to school, grudgingly coming to terms with the fact that this was the last time he would act as the swashbuckling captain of his beloved Xterra, expertly navigating through freshmen clutching crumpled paper bags, angry man-haters and the occasional instance of illegal drug trafficking to his usual spot in the Neptune High car park.

He sighed, patted the steering wheel longingly and tried to imagine the dramatic swell of score that would accompany this moment. Violins singing mournfully, guitars picked soulfully and perhaps a gaggle of crying tweens hugging plush teddies and miserably smudging non-water proof mascara over their puffy, podgy faces. Right. That was _enough_ OC for him.

He was panicking slightly now, partly due to his passing the threshold of the non-Veronica world and into an environment that was _rife_ with her, and partly because he had forgotten the name of the mental asylum/institution that he had finally and painstakingly decided upon to be his ultimate resting place. Was it "Greendale"? "Happyvale"? "Flying Unicorns, Smiling Flowers and Fluffy Bunnies Wonder World?"

So engrossed was he in this profoundly troubling question that he failed to notice the shrill clanging of the bell, the students' subsequent dispersal, nor that he was currently swaying aimlessly down deserted corridors while his physics teacher added yet another 'absent' to his already impressively long and admittedly consistent attendance record.

He heard footsteps, which prompted him into questioning why he hadn't originally included 'tap dancing' on his 'nuthouse extras' list and while relegating its importance to above Bible classes and basketball yet below calligraphy, he realised that the owner of those footsteps was small. And blonde. And hot.

And looking pointedly at him.

Suddenly, he felt certain parts of his anatomy stand to attention and her carefully constructed scowl transformed into a knowing, arrogant, sexy smirk. Cocking her head to the side, she studied him and he was suddenly reminded of all the intrusive screening processes he'd have to endure once enrolled in "Flying Unicorns, Smiling Flowers and Fluffy Bunnies Wonder World." Then she bit her lip in thought and he forgot.

She gave a slight, imperceptible nod and then turned and walked away. And like any masochistic, clinically insane boy, he followed.

He grinned as she lustfully shoved him into the girls' bathrooms and blindly slapped an "Out of Order" sign on the door before she proceeded to push him against the wall and fuse her lips with his. He parted them and there was her tongue. His hands skimmed down and there were her hips. Her hands flew south and there was his…oh god.

Yeah. He was completely, unashamedly,_ blissfully_ mental.

On the bright side, perhaps his cell would have a window.


End file.
